


Novelty Boy

by grayglube



Series: Antique Children [2]
Category: American Horror Story
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Mild Language, Post-Finale, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 10:26:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.” –Nabokov.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Novelty Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "Curio Girl"

It’s not a particularly conscious choice on his part but it is a choice. There’s the sick urge to impress her, court her, garner some form of appreciation from, be worthy of her attention. It’s a choice to be more than just the person she gets high with, or drunk with, or raises hell with around the house with. There’s the sicker urge to be _her’s_.

 

Things change, they’re different now. Like she said they had to be.

 

He doesn’t mind.

 

Not much, most days she’s the girl she wants to be, some days she’s the girl she used to be, they’re both, however, her.

 

Things change, including himself, and he knows he’s not the only one who’s noticed.

 

*     *     *

 

She’s a constant presence, so much so that it less like _she’s_ the presence at all, it’s them, really. Him and her. But it’s different. Like he’s made it, like she wants it, different. Him, her, them. He’s been relegated to some strangely almost completely platonic category of boy reserved for first cousins you wish were your second or step-siblings. There’s a fair bit of nudity, drunken frottage when he gets very _very_ lucky, but the only thing he gets when they’re both sober is a at best a kiss, a peck, not even a peek of tongue.

 

She’s there when he gets out of the shower, her arm perched on the windowsill, and smoke rolling over her lips. Her eyes move over him slow like her hands used to.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Perving.”

 

“I can see that,” he nods with a grin.

 

He puts a towel on and rubs his hair up into messy flopping spikes. She smiles and smokes and he walks over to pluck her cigarette from her hand and take a drag.

 

“Your arms are bigger.”

 

“Yeah?” He looks at them, considers the play of the muscles under his skin, he’s noticed but never really looked.

 

“Yup,” she nods and steals back her cigarette.

 

“Thanks.”

  
“For what?”

 

“Checking me out.”

 

She laughs and rolls her eyes before tossing her cigarette out the window and disappearing.

 

*     *     *

 

He sees her and thinks of perfect commercial marshmallows toasted an unattainable shade that can’t be reproduced away from celluloid and delicate fawns; she’s their shade of tan. And it’s the poet in him that turns it into fantasy, that it’s not some Banana Boat product slicked all over her skin instead it’s from being dropped out of some giant pulsating mass of celestial womb or sprung out, twined out of some dancing nymph hiding in a rabbit hole or up in the green canopy that’s swaying like dust spirals over the house.

 

Maybe it’s not so much the poet in him talking as much as the quality cannabis. He’s a bit of a sentimental sap in love with similes when he’s stoned.

 

She perks up and grins from her supine lounge on the folded sheet lain down on top of the grass and takes off her sunglasses, big and black, her only piece of apparel or accessory.

 

“Hi.”

 

The pocket radio chirps out some top forty dance pop hit with repetitive lyrics about summer and fun and he’s heard it enough times to remember the words despite not wanting to.

 

“I hate this song.”

 

“So, change it.”

 

She’s got the perfect spot, between the house and the fence in the thin sliver of lawn that’s hidden and without shade where no one would think to look, he wouldn’t have but the radio was loud and made him curious enough to go and find it.

 

And he can’t help but stare.

 

Because she’s naked.

 

And shiny.

 

And she doesn’t have an inch of tan line.

 

And she doesn’t have the modesty to act like it’s anything beyond normal behavior.

 

He sits down next to the radio and unfurls her towel before tossing it over her.

 

“Too hot,” she complains throwing it back off and stretching, long, lean, and altogether too herself but someone else entirely to be looked at straight on. He shifts uncomfortably and she rubs the soles of her feet across the sheet.

 

“Could you at least put it on while I’m here? Please?”

 

“Why?”

 

The sunglasses come back down over her eyes and he’s sees only the reflection of his own eyes in them.

 

“Because I don’t want to hang out with you while you’re naked, it’s not normal.”

 

She huffs and her breasts push up with it, “Then don’t hang out with me if it bothers you so much.”

 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He looks away from her face and her nudity keeps reminding him it’s there, he stares and stops and stares again, it’s hypnotic and disorientating.

 

There isn’t much he wants to do besides take off his own clothes and feel the slide of her skin on his, sweaty and oiled and over the top erotic.

 

“How did you mean it?”

 

“…”

 

Mostly he doesn’t answer because he’s forgotten what her question is responding to, but there’s also the fact that parts of his brain are too stuck on the curious urge to run his knuckles over her shaved smooth mound and find out how well she’s applied her tanning oil and if she’s the same pink between her legs as her nipples are against the tawny brown of her breasts.

 

“Nevermind.” She rolls over and sits up slipping her panties on over her ankles and falling back to pull them up her legs and put them in place over her sharp hips with an elastic snap.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Getting dressed and going inside.”

 

She puts on her shirt, one of his and it’s annoying just how often she steals his stuff lately and wear it slouching off her too small frame while she ghosts around the house and haunts him.

 

“Come on, I didn’t mean to be a jerk. Please hang out with me.” He reaches out and takes her hand; she pulls it back out of his grasp limply and looks at him with her sunglasses stare.

 

“I don’t want to hang out with you.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because you ruin everything, you make me feel _bad_ about everything and I really shouldn’t have to feel bad about anything when it comes to you.”

 

She gets up and walks away, he watches her steps and burns the shape of her ankles into his memory; the slope of her stride, the glint of the sun off the shine of her skin, everything about her is a tease now.

 

*     *     *

 

Night is when the house’s newest living resident wakes up, the family before has moved somewhere smaller, closer to the water, they can sense an unease in the house and it’s unnerved them enough to rent it out to some less wise person.

 

The renter is a solitary individual who writes books, successful ones he can imagine since renting even a house with such a sordid past and present can’t be cheap.

 

He watches Violet watching the woman flounce down the stairs trying to braid her hair back in much the same state of undress as the ghostly specter smoking a cigarette and leaning over the banister is. He wonders what it is about females under the age of twenty-five that prompts them to walk around half naked all the time.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You say ‘I’m sorry,’ a  lot, like _a lot_ a lot, do you know that? Whatever, what are you sorry about?”

 

His favorite t-shirt slips on her shoulder and the curve of her deltoid pops out while the sleeve folds into the bend of her elbow.

 

“Making you feel bad, I do it on purpose. I’m angry.”

 

“If you do it on purpose than you aren’t sorry, well maybe you are but you’re not sorry I may or may not feel bad, you’re sorry you’re so fucked up it makes you happy to have me feel bad about things. Why are you angry?”

 

“I don’t want to be your friend.”

 

“Yeah, I know. But I don’t want to be your anything.”

 

She’s moody. It shows.

 

A phone rings. An exchange of greeting and a throaty laugh and a reprimand about calling too early in the morning and plans being made.

 

She sighs and turns to go.

 

“So what do I have to do?”

 

She spins mid step and her lips press into each other while her eyes flint over him, standing, waiting, “To what? Win me back? Is that really what you want to do?”

 

“I just want to know what you think of me.”

 

“Right now I think you’re being a shithead.”

 

“…”

 

“It’s not like I’m going anywhere, so who cares?”

 

He thinks she’s about to tell him to ‘deal with it,’ but she doesn’t. Instead she goes on, “I’m not going anywhere, so just wait.”

 

She doesn’t smile and he’s knows it’s because she isn’t quite enthused on the concept of what’s going to happen, not yet anyway. But still, she’s resigned herself to the idea that in the scope of forever eventually they are going to fall back into each other.

 

He only realizes then that maybe she wants to be his friend first before everything else that’s going to happen, he realizes that she’s trying to see if she can fall in love with him again after knowing everything he’s done after they’ve been put on an even playing field. Dead and stuck and fucked up.

 

*     *     *

 

It’s Halloween again.

 

“Are you doing something today?”

 

He asks.

 

“I’m not doing anything today.”

 

She admits.

 

“I may have a surprise for you later.”

 

He offers.

 

“I’ll be here.”

 

She promises.

 

*     *     *

 

He comes back a few hours later and finds her exactly where she’s been all day.

 

“Present?” She chirps happily and closes her book.

 

“Cocaine,” he holds up the vile between two fingers and she stares at it, transfixed. She’s still staring at it when she asks, “Does it make your nipples numb?”

 

He laughs a little because it’s a strange question to ask but finally he admits, “I don’t know.”

 

In the wake of other things, like the twins throwing smoke bombs into the room and filling in with red and yellow clouds or her baby brother wailing desperately, crankily, or the doorbell ringing insistent and loud, they forget about the drugs though and they spend the last few hours before midnight egging houses, stealing candy, trying and failing at monster movie face make-up attempts in the upstairs bathroom encircled by the orange foil of peanut butter cups and Smarties cellophane wrappers.

 

He kisses her and smears the thin layer of black lipstick all over her cheeks and neck and chin, when he pulls back his mouth tastes chalky and greasy and there’s a layer of swamp thing green make-up paste rubbed off onto her cheek that makes it look bruised in the fluorescent light.

 

When he opens his mouth to speak she tosses in a milk dud and he quite nearly asphyxiates on it. She runs off, giddy, happy, girlish and spends the rest of the night helping Moira take down decorations.

 

*     *     *

 

“I hate it when they put it up that high.”

 

She’s cold, trying to find warmth in one of his sweaters and a thin cotton sheet and looking for a pair of socks she’ll never find because her feet are freezing.

 

“Lower it.” He doesn’t look up from the cards he’s shuffling.

 

“It goes back up on own, it’s programmed.”

 

She shivers and he looks down at her outstretched calf and the goosebumps breaking out across the skin. He gets passing her the deck to cut it and gets up. All she hears is the heavy scrape the air conditioning unit makes when he raises a foot and forces it out the window.

 

“Well, let’s see it’s gets up on its own now.”

 

*     *     *

 

There was something in the way her eyes had watched Travis, shirtless and sweaty, doing yard work one day that made him want to be on the receiving end of just such a stare. He can prance around in the sun too and it’s almost too easy, all it takes is a pair of running shorts and a hot day and a few laps around the house and her eyes go hungry.

 

He walks over and leans over the brick wall, looking down at the cement on the other side, breathing hard and fast and she peers down bemused while pouring water over the back of his neck into his hair. It’s nice rolling over his shoulders, dripping down his chest, down his back. His lungs feel like they’re about to burst but that stare is worth suffering the heat of the day and the burn in his thighs.

 

Her little fingers hook and pull at the crenulated elastic of his running shorts there’s the scrape of her nails his skin when they slip under his briefs too and tug the fabric back.

 

“Caspar ass.”

 

“Not everybody feels the needs to be naked all the time.”

 

“I kind of like it.”

 

The smirk is worth it too.

 

*     *     *

 

It’s a particularly bleak and grey day when she finds him and asks if he still has the cocaine from Halloween. He tells her he’s been saving it for a rainy day and she looks pointedly out at the drizzle and wind and smirks while rolling her eyes.

 

They go up into the attic where Beauregard is too scared of thunder and lightning to stay corporal or alive in death and bumble about. There are still remnants of their last chess game sitting on top of a turned over box. She moves it and spills pieces everywhere.

 

“Show me how to make lines,” she tells him brushing the checkered board clear and flat.

 

He demonstrates and she copies him as best she can with an old auto repair business card, “How is it?”

 

“Way too big.”

 

“Not like it’ll kill me.”

 

She does one line to his two. She rubs at her nose furiously and he explains that she has to snort and hold it against the back of her throat until she can’t feel it anymore.

 

He can see her tongue working in her mouth prodding at the back of her throat, rubbing at the start of her esophagus furiously, grunting and making harsh rattling sounds.

 

“Are your nipples numb?”

 

He remembers her asking once about it. He can still feel his.

 

“I think you have to actually put the coke _on_ them,” she explains.

 

“Go ahead.”

 

“Alright.”

 

She turns around and puts her back to him peeling off her shirt and tossing it across the attic.

 

“Hey!”

 

“Yeah?”

 

The looks she give him over her shoulder is blissed out coquettish.

 

“That’s not nice.”

 

“Do it for me then.”

 

She turns and puffs out her chest held in the delicate grasp of pretty pastel color pinks and hints of lace. He moves the box and sits in front of her when she arches closer giving him the go ahead. His fingers stumble over the hook and clasp between her shoulders and blood spins down to his dick at seeing her small breasts again, cute and tipped with pink, perky.

 

He licks his thumb and index fingers, taking a pinch of coke and twisting it into one hard pink nub and then the other, she squeaks and whines and tells him it does make them numb, he bites down on her breast to test it, she feels nothing so sharp as pain but admits there’s a blunt ache when his teeth work at the rest of her breast and leaves bruises shaped like the lines of his teeth in her skin.

 

This time it’s her that kisses him, hard and animal. He flattens her against the floor and tries to swallow her tongue while it memorizes the layout of his dental arrangement.

 

“You know that’s not the only place you can put it,” he rasps while rolling his hips up between her thighs, her body shakes and she gasps when she feels him, it’s been awhile since they’ve been pressed close enough for his cock to bring attention to itself.

 

“Coke boner?”

 

“Yeah it’s from the coke not you,” he rolls his eyes and she just falls back against the floor, rolling back lazily.

 

“…”

 

“So? You want to?”

 

His fingers skim the three layers of elastic waistbands spanning the space between her hips. She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, making it blanch, while she thinks.

 

“Yeah, okay. Yes.”

 

She reaches between them under her skirt and starts pulling at stockings and panties and he pulls them off her feet when they decide to be difficult and tangle. His fingers are clumsy, he knows, but she’s unbearably hot and damp between her thighs and he probes between heat and slickness to roll her clit under his fingers, stopping to gather a stick of white powder from the chess board on his thumb and rub firm slow circles around the tiny nub.

 

“Can you feel it?”

 

Her face twists into too many different expressions for him to really understand or catch just one and define it, finally her eyes scrunch closed hard and she bangs her head against the floor, “Fuck.”

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Sensitive,” she hisses.

 

“Really?” He knows sensitive is good, he pulls at one of her nipples with his teeth and lips, gently, with his fingers skimming up the insides on her thighs to ghost over the slippery lips of her cunt.

 

“No!”

 

He startles and his hands still, “Sorry,” he mumbles wetly against her chest in sheepish apology.

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she gasps, her hips twitching towards his fingers and then back just as fast, not sure what she wants, what her body can take.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“No.”

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

He traces the seam of her sex with a fingertip and then another, slipping over wet flesh and ready to sink in. She groans. “Don’t touch me.”

 

“Like this?” He bucks his knuckle against her clit.

 

“Stop it.” Her chest is rises fast and hard, her breathing uneven and shaky and he can see the shine of wetness in her eyes.

 

“…”

 

“I don’t even think I can put my panties back on.”

 

“That bad?” He feels bad, but not enough not to stop touching, stop trying.

 

“Not bad, just can’t take it.”

 

“…”

 

“I wanna cum.”

 

“How bad?”

 

“Really bad.” She nods up at him and his serious mask.

 

“Can you?”

 

“I don’t know.” Her eyes close and her head falls back hard with a thud. He pushes up her skirt and falls between her spayed thighs breathing in the smell of her wet heat and need. He licks in one slow swipe and her body jerks hard, he bites the side of his tongue and grunts.

 

“…”

 

He waits a moment and licks again, forcing the tip of his tongue hard against her clit. Her fingers ripped at his hair, force his mouth away. She desperately wet.

 

“No, fuck. Off.”

 

“Fuck off?”

 

He smirks and despite the harsh tug of her fingers on his scalp he flicks his tongue towards her again.

 

“No, _off_.”

 

Reluctant and horny he listens and kisses her until her small hand rubs him through his jeans, then he groans. She’s rolling hard through her high when she tells him she wants to do it to him. He doesn’t quite understand but her mouth kissing and sucking marks into the skin stretching across his hips makes her intentions clear.

 

She’s uncoordinated and a novice and he’s never been blown in his life so he’s not so forthcoming with helpful suggestions and they’re both too high to really need to have it be perfect technique.

 

When he cums it’s half in her throat, half in her mouth and she chokes, wiping at her lips and trying to catch the bulk of his release on the back of her hand when the taste is surprising enough to keep her from swallowing. He’s about to apologize but her mouth and little wiggling tongue is licking off every lost drop and string from his skin, greedy and hungry.

 

He tries to return the favor but she just tells him he doesn’t do it right and spends the better part of two hours trying to delicately touch and rub at herself in ways that feel good instead of too much, she gets frustrated enough to cry and finally, finally, when she cums her voice breaks in a little cry that makes him want to pull her on top of his dick right then and bounce her up and down until she cries and screams in the exact same way again.

 

He doesn’t and settles for his hand instead.

 

*     *     *

 

“Holy shit,” he breathes at the sight.

 

His son.

 

A boy who’s almost a perfect mimic of him, less than a hundred feet away, not staring at him but looking enough in his direction that he might as well be.

 

He feels her come up behind him and press close, up on her toes, arms swinging over his shoulders, wrists crossing over his chest loosely.

 

“Don’t worry.” He can feel a rumble of laughter go throw her chest across his spine.

 

“Worry about what?”

 

“I’ve thought about fucking him but I wouldn’t actually do it.”

 

*     *     *

 

It’s another spectacularly hot day when she finds him and drags him along with her with no more than a, ‘Come on,’ and a secret smile.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“Garage.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s cooler.”

 

She releases her grip on his hand once they’re inside, “Car.” She slinks over and opens the passenger side door while calling the invitation back at him. He slides in on the driver’s side and watches her watch him, waving an old cassette tape back and forth at him.

 

“Look what I found, Depeche Mode before they got famous, never heard this before.”

 

“Retro,” he’s taking it out of the case before he realizes he doesn’t have the keys to the car, it uncanny how well she reads him, she points to the visor and the keys fall in his lap. She lights a cigarette and he puts the tape in and soon enough he’s absorbed in synth beats and ghostly vocals and staring to intently at the long lean lines of her thighs and calves from where she’s got her legs propped up on the dash.

 

“What are you looking at?”

 

“Your legs.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

She smiles around the filter of her cigarette before tossing it out the window and unfurling herself from her seat over to his, but not quite. One leg presses up against the outside of his and the other is bent over in the passenger side, she straddles the stick shift and leans into him, breathing against his neck and sucking her mark into the skin a moment later.

 

He means to grab her knee but ends up on the stick shift instead, her thigh soft and warm against the outside of his hand. Her breath hitches when he pushes it back between her legs with a cheeky, “What gear am I in?”

 

It’s only half expected when she cants her hips forward, her lips press up against his in a gentle rasp like her voice when she half groans, “Fifth.”

 

“Is it?”

 

He jostles the stick shift back and forth and she follows it with her groin.

 

“Highway driving, anything over fifty-five.”

 

“I’m getting jealous.”

 

“Push your seat back then.”

 

He’s sliding his seat back and she’s sliding over into his lap in the space of a breath and her mouth is eager, her tongue playful.

 

The horn blares suddenly when she leans back and they both realize the positioning is less than ideal.

 

“Backseat.”

 

They tumble over the front seats and he pulls her back onto his thighs, she whines, petulant.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“I wanna lay down.”

 

“You don’t want to be on top?”

 

“Not really, I don’t like it as much.”

 

“Why not?” He doesn’t care how she presses up to him just that she does but some not so secret part of him wants to know what she’d look like astride, riding him, wonders if she’d bounce wildly or slide slow, up and down, on his cock.

 

“I just like it when you’re on top of me better.”

 

He indulges her, lies her down, covers her, their legs looking for lost space in the too small space and he’s got a foot pressed against one side of the car and his other knee on the ground, his thigh framing hers and trying to find purchase on the seat and he realizes that he’s grown a few inches in height and he really wishes he hadn’t because he doubts he can handle the strain the position puts on him.

 

“I’m always worried I’m crushing you.” He can feel her breasts pressed tight up against his chest and can feel the ragged rise of it when she breathes roughly, either turned on or just because he might be smothering her.

 

“It’s nice, kind of like I’m trapped.” Her fingers massage his scalp and she smiles, looking at his lips.

 

“That doesn’t sound that nice,” he admits.

 

“Maybe not trapped,” her fingertips skim his jaw and he shivers, “Maybe secure?” Her eyes are shy and soft and bright when they flint up to catch his. “Safe. You know?”

 

He does, but he only nods.

 

He doesn’t want to talk, he just wants to kiss her, see if she’ll let him make her cum.

 

Quite suddenly her cheeks flare red and she shifts nervously, or anxiously.

 

“What?”

 

“Why do you look at me like that?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“You have a look.”

 

“What look?”

 

Her eyes lid half-way, a hint sinister and a little amused; his spine feels like a melting candle at that look.

 

“Like that,” she grins.

 

“You don’t like when I look at you like that.”

 

He most certainly likes it coming from her.

 

“I get wet when you look at me like that.”

 

His brain bangs out like a sparked fuse and his mouth gets greedy for hers again at the admission, his tongue shoving past her surprised gasp and low keening moan, his hips rock into hers and her legs kick out to wrap around his waist and calf.

 

“Do you want to?” He asks when she breaks the suction of their mouths to breathe.

 

“Have sex?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yes.”

 

She’s reaching to undo her shorts her assent given with absolute relief like she’s been dying for it as long as he has.

 

“Thank fucking god.”

 

She’s helps him strip off his shirt and he tugs down her shorts and panties, he shoves up her shirt knowing already that she’s gone without a bra.

 

His cock’s cradled in her palm before his brain catches up to her pushing aside his jeans and boxers, her hips tilt and he wants for one moment to tell her to wait because he wants to be buried in her tight, little body again but he can wait if she needs him to, if she’s not yet quite as worked up as he is but he feels the slickness of her sex and he wonders if the past few years have all just been foreplay for right now.

 

She goes rigid and stops breathing when he shifts and slips in, sinking further until every bit of every inch of him is back where it belongs. Her face is slack and when she breathes it’s shaky. She’s still and silent.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Quite suddenly she squirms at his words, “Nothing.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah, did I make a weird face?”

 

“I thought I hurt you.”

 

He cradles her face carefully and studies her eyes for tears, there aren’t any but he isn’t quite convinced she’s alright.

 

“Just forgot what it feels like. Maybe it feels different, I don’t know.”

 

“How’s it feel?”

 

He grinds his pelvis against her and she tucks her bottom lip between her teeth before letting out a long sigh, a little whimper.

 

“Deeper.”

 

He pulls out and rolls back in, slow and heavy and her eyes shut tight, her throat working and swallowing, her thighs tight around his legs.

 

“Like that?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

She licks her lips and he leans down closer moving his hips in jerky little thrusts once he’s all the way inside again so he hits parts of her he knows he hasn’t before.

 

“Ah!”

 

Her cry is sharp and terse.

 

“Fuck, sorry.”

 

He pulls out in apology, she whines and twists her head, “No, you’re on off my hair.”

 

“Sorry,” he moves his hand and cradles the back of her skull and presses their foreheads together, and she watches his face when he moves, her mouth soft and wet and puffing gasps out across his own.

 

Briefly he wonders if the car is rocking, it feels like it is, adrift somewhere, the sea, clouds, space, and she’s the only warmth in coldness of whatever place they’re lost in, the heat of her cunt the only thing he needs to ever make his blood burn.

 

When she begs for release she does it sweetly, softly, like she’s sad and it’s the only thing that will ever make her happy, and when he circles his hips down firmly over hers she mewls, and when she cums her face goes curious and ecstatic like it’s the first time it’s ever happened to her, or the best.

 

He’s about to spill inside her and realizes the last time they had sex she thought she was alive and there had been needless but expected precautionary measures to take, briefly he wonders if he’s supposed to pull out but her legs are too tight around him for him to make the effort and her hands are insistent against his lower back, pulling at him, her hips pressing closer, tilting further trying to get him as far inside her as she can.

 

His groan is rough and loud and only half muffled against her throat when he cums hot and twitching inside her, he hears her make a sound, surprised, he doesn’t know whether it’s surprise born of irritation or elation. But her cheeks are still flushed and her eyes are glassy and she kisses him.

 

She says something that could be a ‘woah’ or a ‘wow’ and wriggles beneath him trying to decide if she likes or dislikes the feeling of him cuming inside.

 

He slips out limply and she still writhes around, thighs pressing together like she’s unsure about something. When he asks her ‘what’ both laconically and post-orgasmic she just presses her lips together and blushes a brighter red before looking down at his dick and frowning.

 

She takes his hand and presses his fingers against her mound, “Again. I want to cum again, I was almost there.” He gets her off with his fingers pressing through the mess of his orgasm, slipping over her clit and thrusting up inside, fucking her while he recovers and starts to feel the tingles of trying to get hard again too soon spark and spiral through his groin.

 

Her lips part and her tongue pokes through in the corner while she tries desperately to find relief. She says his name, softly, or half of it, and looks at him when she finally crests and rides down her high. He slumps down and she traces his spine with her nails.

 

“Hey!” She chirps so suddenly he startles not realize he’d been falling asleep on top of her, lazy, satisfied, content.

 

“What?”

 

“There’s a lighter back here,” she points and laughs.

 

“…”

 

He rolls his eyes and chuckles a little.

 

“Sorry,” she smiles up at him sheepish and cute.

 

“I’m sorry,” he tells her solemnly. She looks up at him expression deepening to something fonder, loving, accepting, “Oh, I know.”

 

It’s not forgiveness but it’s resolution and he’s glad to have it.

 

“My leg’s asleep,” he shifts and pins and needles take hold from knee to toes.

 

“Mine too,” she grumbles.

 

They reconfigure their limbs and tangle together mostly naked against the vintage leather interior of the car that’s added two more lovers to its list of backseat defilers.


End file.
